Jeffery Deaver - The Burial Hour

He said, ‘For what? I cannot imagine.’

As she and the Forestry officer headed for the door, Rhyme noted that Ercole dug into his pocket, fishing for something. Then, for a reason Rhyme could not figure out, the young man’s face tightened with dismay as he produced a set of car keys and dropped them into Sachs’s outstretched palm.

Their deduction was a solid one — that the Composer might be looking for victims at the refugee camp near the airport.

The forensics were good: Aviation fuel suggested an airport, and the ingredients in Libyan food suggested refugees’ meals or vendors near a refugee camp like the Capodichino Reception Center.

And yet...

As sometimes happens with the most solidly and elegantly constructed theory, this was marred by a tragic flaw.

It had been made too late.

The Composer had done exactly what Rhyme and the others had guessed. Though with one variation: He had not bothered using a kidnapped person’s gasping breath as the rhythm section for a waltz. He’d simply slashed the victim’s throat and, after leaving his trademark noose, fled.

Amelia Sachs and Ercole Benelli had arrived about a half hour after the team at the Questura had deduced that the camp might be the site of the next kidnapping. Already present were a dozen Police of State and Carabinieri, along with some officers of the Financial Police specializing in immigration enforcement. Sachs had spotted the flashing lights and the crowd just outside the camp, at the far end from the main gate. There, the chain link had been cut open, making an impromptu exit.

Perhaps a hundred people ganged outside — and from the vigilant way the officers were watching those present, Sachs assumed that many were refugees who’d slipped through the gate to view the incident. Others, workers from the vendor stands, protesters, journalists and passersby, milled about as well, hoping for a look at the carnage, Sachs supposed.

Sachs mounted an earphone and hit a call button, then slipped the live cell back into her hip pocket, sitting just above her switchblade knife.

‘Sachs. The scene?’

‘Beyond contaminated. Must be fifty people surrounding the body.’

‘Hell.’

She turned to Ercole. ‘We have to get those people away. Clear the scene. Clear the whole area.’

‘ Sì. I will do that. I will try. Look at all of them.’

He stepped away from her and spoke to some of the Police of State officers, who at first paid little attention to him. She heard him mention the names ‘Rossi’ and then ‘Spiro.’ And the men grew wary and attentive and began clearing the crowd in earnest. Some men and women, apparently soldiers with the army, assisted.

Sachs told Rhyme she’d call him back, she had to secure the scene, and disconnected.

‘Find out who’s in charge.’

‘Yes.’

Pulling on gloves and donning rubber bands — even though it was pointless, given the trampled ground — she crouched, then lifted the corner of the sheet. She studied the victim.

He was a young, dark-complexioned man, eyes half open. He lay in a thick pool of blood. A half-dozen cuts were prominent in his neck. He was in stocking feet. She laid the sheet back.

Ercole had a conversation with several officers and he and one of them walked up to Sachs. He was, she recognized, with the Police of State.

Ercole said, ‘This is Officer Bubbico. He was the first on the scene when the workers called about the death.’

‘Ask him who the victim is.’

Bubbico offered his hand and Sachs shook it. He said, ‘I speak English. I studied in America. Many years ago. But I can speak all right.’

But before he could say any more, a female voice sounded behind her. In Italian.

Sachs turned to see someone approaching quickly. A short woman with a pretty but severe face, a mass of thick auburn hair tied into a ponytail with a black ribbon. She was slim but seemed in fighting shape. She wore a dusty khaki blouse and gray skirt, long, and had a lanyard around her neck, a clattering radio on her hip.

Her demeanor, more than the laminated credentials, spoke of authority.

The woman grimaced at the sight of the corpse.

Sachs asked, ‘You’re connected to the camp?’

‘Yes.’ Her eyes were still on the covered body. ‘I am Rania Tasso.’ Sachs noted that her badge said Ministero dell’Interno. ‘The director.’ Her English revealed a slight accent.

Sachs and Ercole introduced themselves.

‘ Orribile ,’ she muttered. ‘This is our first murder. We’ve had robbery and fights but no rapes, no murders. This is horrible.’ The last word was solidly anglicized, with the ‘h’ pronounced.

A moment later Massimo Rossi arrived and strode close, nodding to Ercole and Sachs. He identified himself to Rania and, after a few words in Italian, they both switched to English. The inspector asked the camp director and Bubbico what had occurred.

Rania said, ‘The guards are still looking for witnesses but one worker, a cook, saw the killer crouching over the body and setting the noose on the ground. Then he fled to those bushes and trees. He got into a dark car and sped away. I asked what kind of car, but the cook did not have any thought.’

Bubbico said, ‘Several officers and I ran to the road as soon as we heard. But, as I told Director Tasso, he was gone by then. I ordered roadblocks but this is a congested area. We are near the airport and there are present many factories and some farms, of course — and there are many roads and streets by where he could escape.’ He opened a tissue and displayed the all-too-familiar noose, made of dark gut.

‘Where was it?’ Sachs asked. ‘The noose.’

‘There. Near the head,’ Bubbico explained.

‘The victim? Do we know his identity?’ Sachs asked.

Rania said, ‘Yes, yes. He had gone through the Eurodac procedure. The Dublin Regulation. You are familiar?’

‘Yes,’ Sachs said.

‘He was Malek Dadi, twenty-six. Tunisian by birth but he lived in Libya for the past twenty years, with his family — his parents and sister are still in Tripoli. He had no criminal record and was a classic economic refugee; he’d taken no public political stance in the conflict in Libya and was not a target of any of the factions there. He was not the sort the extremists, like ISIS, would target. He was here simply to make a better life and bring his family over.’

Rania looked down and added, ‘So very sad. I could not say I know about everybody here. But Malek arrived recently so he is fresher in my memory. He was suffering from depression. Very anxious. He missed his family terribly and was very homesick. We have representatives in the camp of the Italian Council for Refugees — the CIR. They arranged for help for him. Psychological help. I think it might have done him good. But now this...’ A look of disgust crossed her face.

Bubbico said, ‘And then, it was shameful. Some people ran out to the body and stripped things from him. They took his shoes and belt. Any money and his wallet.’

Rania Tasso said, ‘I was devastated. Yes, people here are desperate but he was one of them . And to steal his clothing! They would have taken this shirt, it seems, but left it merely because of the blood. Terrible.’

‘Do you know who took them?’ Ercole asked. ‘The articles might be important evidence.’

Rania and the officer did not. She said, ‘They vanished.’ She waved a hand at the mass of refugees on the other side of the fence, within the camp proper.

She added something that Sachs found interesting: She’d seen a suspicious-looking man the other night, heavyset, looking at her. But he might have been studying the security, or just looking for victims. She had no information about him, other than a general description, and she could not say exactly where he’d been standing.